


ghoulies and ghosties (good lord remix)

by summerdayghost



Category: KING Stephen - Works, Salem's Lot (TV 2004), Salem's Lot - Stephen King
Genre: M/M, Nightmares, Older Man/Younger Man, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-07-10 14:24:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15951170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerdayghost/pseuds/summerdayghost
Summary: Mark had nightmares often enough to know that he’d live.





	ghoulies and ghosties (good lord remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [And Things That Go Bump in the Night](https://archiveofourown.org/works/246458) by [sarken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarken/pseuds/sarken). 
  * In response to a prompt by [sarken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarken/pseuds/sarken) in the [remixrevivalmadness2018](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/remixrevivalmadness2018) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
>  
> 
> No safe stories or past remixes, but there is one collaboration not available for remixing (Keith and Rachel Getting Married). There are also a few other fandoms you're welcome to choose from.

Mark woke up screaming. He kicked and thrashed enough that his blanket had ended up on the floor. There was no sign of his pillow. He had probably chucked it across the room knowing himself. It had happened several times before. Once he managed to nail Ben in the face that way. They had a good laugh about it when Mark woke up.

> Danny Glick was at the window, at the window, at the window. Mark knew what it meant, but for some reason he couldn’t stop himself from crawling out to him. It was like he had no control of his own body. Danny would probably stop his fall, but at what cost? At what cost?

He didn’t have nightmares like this on nights spent out on the road in the car. There was a certain security that came with being on the move. When they stopped to rest at motel though, he had nightmares more nights than he didn’t. There was no knowing who (or what) could be next door.

He had enough nightmares that he knew he would live.

> Mark’s parents were alive. Mark’s parents were alive and hugging him. They were holding him so tight breathing was near impossible, but that didn’t matter. It was beautiful. The only thing wrong was that their faces had been cut off and stitched back on. Whoever had stitched them back on was terribly confused. They were on upside down for one, their lips were towards their foreheads too large for the skin of what had once been their chins to cover. That and Mark was pretty sure his dad was wearing his mom’s face and his mom his dad’s. But again other than that it was beautiful.

In the haze that came with waking up Mark momentarily believed he was all alone. It had only been an instant, but that was more than long enough. Loneliness was not a concept Mark was comfortable with entertaining for very long. A person was more vulnerable when they were alone. That’s how they get you.

> The little boy’s throat was slashed so deep he was nearly decapitated. Yet still managed to speak. His voice was something horrible, distinctly inhuman. The word voice was charitable. What he really had were baritone hisses. He used the baritone hisses to tell Mark that Mark belonged to him, him, him.

Remembering Ben felt like a miracle until he had a terrible thought. What if Ben really wasn’t there after all? His eyes hadn’t adjusted to the darkness yet so couldn’t see him. Mark couldn’t hear him either which wasn’t a great sign. Ben didn’t know but he snored.

> All that was left of the man’s head was scattered on the wallpaper. The wallpaper was floral and light blue which made the red and pink gore dripping to the floor stand out all the much more.
> 
> The gun was still smoking in the man’s hand. Mark must have just missed it. He didn’t know the man well enough to know what he would have looked like with a head, but he wore a nice collared shirt. Mark assumed he was handsome.
> 
> Time ran backwards. The bullet flew back into the gun, the man’s head came back together, and Mark’s assumptions were proven correct. Just as it seemed that the world was trying to correct itself time starting going in the direction it was supposed to go. Mark saw everything.

“Ben?” Mark called out voice cracking halfway through.

In another life perhaps he would have been embarrassed, but now that’s the farthest thing from his mind. The only thing on his mind is Ben.

> Jimmy was killed with knives, so many knives. There was a hand covering Mark’s eyes, but he could still see Jimmy’s corpse filled with knives. Despite being filled with knives Jimmy was moving. Jimmy stood up, still filled with knives and started towards Mark speaking with Barlow’s voice. The hand covering Mark’s face refused to let him run.

Ben didn’t answer him, and Mark felt the beginnings of panic well up in his chest. Ben usually answered him, sometimes before Mark had actually even said anything.

His eyes always took a long time to adjust to darkness, even now after everything. Mark could finally make out the shadow of Ben’s outline. Ben was definitely in his bed as opposed to somewhere else, but that was not much reassuring. He could be dead.

Mark hopped out of his bed and stumbled quickly to Ben’s bedside. Don’t be dead. Please don’t be dead. He wouldn’t have anywhere to go if Ben were to up and die. His world would be over.

Death was not always the end. Mark knew that. It was one of the worst lessons he’d ever learned. He couldn’t imagine what would happen if death wasn’t the end for Ben. He didn’t want to imagine it.

> Multiple sets of sharp teeth dug into Mark’s jugular, more still in his limbs and torso. Mark had never felt so small. It was hard to understand how so many vampires could manage to fit in and feed on him. He was in so much pain that it looped back around to numbness. He should have run out of blood hours ago with the way they sucked.
> 
> Laughter echoed filling every crevice of the cold, damp room. Mark had no idea where it came from. The only unoccupied mouth in the whole house was his own.

“Ben,” he whispered with his heart in his throat.

He fiddled with his hands as if he were trying to grab onto something and was only finding air. He couldn’t touch Ben. He couldn’t touch Ben. Not before he knew for sure if Ben were alive or dead or something else entirely. All could do was stand there and hope desperately it was the first one.

> Mark’s arms were no longer attached to his body. They had been pulled off on the rack. He had read about the rack many time, but he’d never thought. His arms were now tied by the wrists from the chandelier.

“Yeah,” Ben said softly in a tone Mark knew was his best attempt at soothing (he had heard it before in worse moments when the nightmares were worse or he missed everyone too much).

The sound of his voice felt like a miracle to Mark. Surely the choirs of angels could not be as sweet. It was not complete confirmation that everything was okay, but it was good enough for Mark. Nothing had been okay for a long time anyway.

> A girl sat on the swingset rocking back and forth. Her head rested at an unnatural angle. Her eyes were gone, bloody sockets left in their place. Her smile had been cut open ear to ear.

Mark heard the rustle of blankets being moved aside. Ben patted the bed next to him inviting Mark in. He didn’t need to be told twice.

He crawled in next to Ben. Mark curled around him as tightly as possible, and Ben returned his embrace. He felt crushed and hoped Ben the same way. Anything to reaffirm that they were alive and here together. It was moments like this that reminded Mark of just how much they really needed each other.

> Mark struggled underneath Barlow, “Do you really think you could kill me, boy?”

Ben’s lips brushed against his shoulder. It was a small moment, probably one he wasn’t supposed to notice, but he knew what it meant. Mark knew what he was supposed to do (on paper at least, that is).

Mark wriggled trying to get to where he needed. Ben must have noticed, must have realized what Mark was about to do, because he dropped his arms from around Mark giving him more room to move. He also jerked his head away from Mark’s shoulder as quickly as he could. If Mark didn’t know better he’d say that Ben had moved as if he had been stung.

> Susan brushed Mark’s hair. He couldn’t see her in the mirror, it looked like the brush was levitating, but he knew it was Susan. There was lipstick all over his face and dread in his stomach.

His eyes stayed open as he kissed Ben. It was a very earnest if uncertain kiss on Mark’s end. This wasn’t his first kiss. No, this was his second kiss. Although that first kiss happened under very different circumstances. It happened long ago, long before everything with ‘Salem’s Lot. Remembering it felt like watching it happen to someone else. Mark didn’t want to spend too much time thinking on it when he could be thinking about what was happening in that moment.

He couldn’t tell what Ben was thinking. He certainly wasn’t feeling revulsion. If he was then he would have pushed Mark away. He would have kissed him back. Technically, Ben kissed Mark first. But other than that Ben’s state of mind was a mystery.

> The clawhammer broke Mark’s nose and then his cheekbones. He took blow after blow after blow, and yet it always seemed like there was a new untarnished place for the clawhammer to hit. His skull was pulverized. Mark wasn’t even sure if his head could really still be called a head anymore.

Ben rolled onto his back pulling Mark on top of him. Mark was mostly gathered up on his chest and that couldn’t have been too comfortable for Ben. Ben broke the kiss and laid back.

Mark felt Ben’s skin as he shifted into a position that more resembled straddling. He had forgotten that Ben was naked. Ben usually slept in the nude, and Mark usually shamefully pretended to be asleep as Ben undressed.

> There was no telling exactly how many bodies were crammed into the hallway. They were packed in too tight at such odd angles. There were too many. A rough estimate would be possible with the help of a fucked up equation. Asking the killer was also an option, but was it really? He probably wasn’t the sort to keep count.

He rested a hand on Ben’s chest, “Now what?”

It was a decent question with no chance of a decent answer.

“Now we sleep,” Ben grabbed his hand, “Tomorrow we’ll be in Detroit.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.


End file.
